Slippers

-Bullying.-

“No one even likes you.”

Deidre froze with her carefully poised brush against the end of her slipper. She had been previously hoping whatever she thought she knew about color theory and silk wasn’t going to betray her getting the color just right.

“Because you’re disgusting.” The Voice continued when the reaction didn’t fulfill whatever quota was being chased this time. Doing her best to appear unfazed, she silently continued her task.

“Everyone knows real ballerinas don’t need to do anything to their gear. They just are.” And a hefty scoff came from MeriBelle, signaling that, finally, she was out of ideas for insults and therefore done speaking— for now.

This was a common tactic for MeriBelle and made little sense to Deidre: why wouldn’t an artist do artistic things like paint themselves all sorts of things? The calm, logical part of her often settled on “an unartistic mind can only think so far,” but that part of her was not very present at this moment.

“Well, I’ll show you! I’ll win the WHOLE Talent Show with just this half-dyed thing!” Heat rushing from her cheeks to her ears. Ugh, they got the best of her, and this time she tossed down the brush and splattered herself with dye. Excruciating. This time there were no feigned hidden giggles or scoffs but uproarious laughter from the entire group.

“Perfect! Thanks for making it easy on the rest of us. I mean easier than it already was!” Harvey mockingly said, while nervously fiddling the hem of his shirt. That seemed satisfy enough to make the bulk of them scatter. MeriBelle took a step forward. She must have thought of something. She was close enough Deidre could tell what kinds of soaps she did or didn’t use. Taking a chance, she broke the silence before MeriBelle could:

“You know, MeriBelle," she blurted, "just because you keep talking doesn't mean you’re making any sense. At all.”

MeriBelle leaned in closer still. “It sort of helps to move your hands a lot?” she shrugged a little.

Astonished, Deidre couldn’t believe what just happened? Was this a joke? A little bit of honesty? No One Will Believe You Land? At this point, anything was possible. Her mother’s words entered her mind just then, “It’s not your job. Not today, it isn’t.” She left the hot tears cool as they smeared the dye splatters on her face. She felt truly unstoppable now. In this untraceable moment between two long-time opponents, Deidre drew a breath and with it found any and all words in her mind and came up with,“What happens next?”

The words stunned even herself, so she drew a figure eight in front of her face in an attempt to buy herself some time. “Eh?”

The girls giggled in a rare moment of cordial co-worker level etiquette.

MariBelle only shrugged and walked off. Cool. A complete non-sequitur. It didn't seem to carry much weight in the moment, she needed be on her mark for tonight. You can’t tell people what you’re going to do: you have to show them. She only had to ignore them for the rest of the day: Talent Show was Tonight!

She nodded to the volunteer at the piano. To ignore him would have been a mistake, not to mention major points off. There was just her and the notes now. She floated: softer, higher, and lighter than Baryshnikov. The only sound was that of the music that accompanied her. The streaks in her slipper only highlighted how she, herself, glimmered in a way that only Liberace wished he could mimic.

On her final landing and the ending note rang, the only sound was her breath catching up to her. She held the pose for what she deemed an appropriate amount of gloating time, she raised her the bow and tip-toed off the stage. She did not wait for the results. She no longer cared. She and everyone in that audience already knew what they where despite what any official results might say.

At home during dinner recap, her mother didn’t have the expression she had expected. Or she couldn’t read this one. Was it new? Was it concern for the ridicule? No, for sure there had been so many discussions over and over. This was definitely her Thinking Face. Her mother took a long, even breath:

“Deidre, you know that I am always enthusiastically supportive in all, if not most, of what your choices are. However, I urge you to take pause here and reflect. The effect of a great splash— no matter how well-intentioned— can have catastrophic and unintended results.”

Now, hear me when I say this: what I am about to tell you is in no way a nod to-- or bumping you towards the Softer Route. Pros and cons for both. Quite usually. A lot can be done on the Hidden Path. You did beautifully tonight, and you can choose to take this path and after it make this turn and after that make that one. Life is not a train track. But you are at the helm. Make no mistake about that. People say things like “Carve your own path” for a reason. But you can’t fix a broken system with how you wish things were or with the perfection proposition. You need to at the very least supplement the brokenness to transition. This is why a big splash isn’t always desired or what is called for, you see? The Hidden Path doesn’t necessarily mean “secret” or disguised either. Most people can’t see past their own nose.

Much time passed before her mother spoke again; she almost forgot they were talking.

“Hidden in Plain Sight” is and has been a thing Forever, so don’t think it cowardice.” Deidre learned early that some people need longer to find what words they wanted to speak. Her mother was one of them and they often sat in silence while words were gathered in her usual measured manner.

"Oh, I think this might be a bit much for tonight. Please, get the dishes, and we can talk more later.”

Ah, she knew what “Talk More Later” was inescapable. Sure, her mother would give her reprieve tonight, a few days at most. Something would come up, and the topic would come up, and The Topic would be had again! How could she complain? As she lay on her bed with her half-dyed slippers back on her feet, tracing her favorite steps on the wall. If this is what it was meant to be “disgusting,” who would want to be anything else at all?

Her mother told her time and time again: “Life is about the journey, not the destination, and you are always “allowed” to change direction.” How was she to decide anything at all right now? She was just fourteen, and the way her mother and Dr. Seuss told it, there was going to be a lot of twists and turns.

Senior Graduation Picture Day:

“And I can put anything I want?”

“There’s a banned word list, but that’s about it. They want you to be creative” And the volunteer behind the counter slid over a small slip of paper with a few curse and hate words on it while making over exaggerated air-quotes.

“Perfect.”

“Oh? It takes most people a few days to come back with something.”

“Nope. Easiest.” She picked up the pen and wrote with a barely contained giggle:

“No One Even Likes You.”